Monday, 28 December 2020

For Lviv



In West Ukraine, a blue crane

lifts the barley from the guts of the city.

In this accident of geography,

she found the only puddle on the ground

and made one hell of a splash.


Blonde and pleated, tall and static,

a well trod speakers’ corner, she stood.

Her hometown, a Bureau de Change

above a laundry room.


She could not have the patience of the flower seller.

She did not believe in the sound of the sea.

The hurricane from the away end

blew crosses from the hilltops into her psychology,

blew ticks from the reservoir to fuel her residency.


Statuesque, she daily flung her concrete words, ballistic,

against the amassed and fascistic.


To mark the tenth anniversary of her death,

football scarves were laid.

A small boy, all neat and auburn,

offered his historiography:


Fuck your vile corrupt iconography 


Spat and turned into the café, he burst

already old enough to drink 5 star Hararava,

lit up his cigarette and eyeballed

the old patriots in the corner,

who ran off handing their beer money

to the beggar woman in the street.

He bowed toward her stomping ground

and sniped:


Never admit defeat!




 

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